


Wrap You Around My Finger

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy Kink, Episode: s05e07 Ace Chemicals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Something had been growing between them before everything went to hell, and Bruce has spent months trying to forget about it. When he finds himself in the kitchen of Wayne Manor—hidden away from anyone who might be able to help him, watched over by stand-in parents, and face to face with Jeremiah after so long—Bruce figures he doesn't have anything left to lose if he tries to turn the entire situation down a path that Jeremiah probably hadn't been prepared for.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 25
Kudos: 149





	Wrap You Around My Finger

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to all of my enabling friends who have been keeping me sane during this wild ride of a year. Love you!!! <3

“But I’ve realized if we can’t be friends,” Jeremiah says, voice still rasping from the effort it had apparently taken to control his temper after he had grabbed onto the collar of Bruce’s jacket. So overcome with emotion. So overcome at the idea that Bruce had rejected him. So incapable of controlling his desire to reach out, touch, be close in the way that they had once been. “Then we can be connected in other ways,” he finishes, voice softening.

Bruce’s mind briefly spins, searching Jeremiah’s expression for a sign. 

Other ways, he thinks while his pulse does a funny little skip that it hasn’t done for nearly half a year, and he remembers—

—long evenings spent together and the way they would catch each other’s eyes. Low conversations and the way Jeremiah would always go abruptly still whenever Bruce brushed against him. The care and concern directed towards him, the occasional mentions that if Bruce found himself in danger so often, he really ought to have someone able to take care of him. A steadily growing theory that—

—the train of thought stops abruptly. That is absolutely not what Jeremiah is currently thinking about. 

“How?” Bruce asks, voice tempered and flat. 

Yet still, his mind continues to race with thoughts he had unsuccessfully attempted to bury months ago. Ideas that Jeremiah wanted more than to just be a friend, that Jeremiah wanted to be the one who Bruce could depend on completely, that Jeremiah at times wanted to coddle and cosset him in a way that no one else ever had. The distant contemplation of what it would be like to call him—

—a personal low, in the middle of a cemetery, when Jeremiah asked the Maniax if they were going to keep behaving like children and a certain title flashed in Bruce’s mind and weighed heavily upon his tongue—

Jeremiah’s smile twitches wider. His eyes don’t waver, locked with Bruce’s.

“You’ll see.” The smile fades, and that, more than anything else thus far, makes panic begin to suffuse through Bruce’s chest. “In time.”

Jeremiah is desperate; there’s nothing that he won’t do to make sure this night goes the way that he’s planned. Jeremiah is desperate, and easily overcome by his emotions, and incapable of controlling himself when Bruce is involved. Jeremiah begins to reach into Bruce’s space, and Bruce—

Doesn’t have anything left to lose. Not really. Nothing but his sanity, which given the trend of the evening thus far might just be exactly what Jeremiah is aiming for.

—reaches out and pins Jeremiah’s hand to the table underneath his own. 

Jeremiah stares at him, as if startled. He always did seem to pause whenever Bruce touched him, whether it was by accident or otherwise, as if he needed time to process the fact that they had come into contact with each other. Bruce looks at him closely, eyes roving over a face that is different, but familiar; just as Jeremiah as he is now is different, but familiar. Jeremiah doesn’t pull his hand away and the moment builds between them, like a bubble ready to burst.

Bruce licks his lips, and Jeremiah’s eyes unsubtly snap down to his mouth for a fraction of a second. 

At least that proves that Bruce is on to something. He allows his eyes to fall half shut so that he can look up at Jeremiah through the fan of his lashes. It’s something that he used to do, before everything went to hell; gently testing the waters, gently trying to figure out if Jeremiah’s behaviour was linked to the fact that he wasn’t used to being around other people or if it was because of something else entirely. Bruce had almost been certain, before everything changed for the worse. He’d almost been certain of something that made his heart race.

“It seems as if you’ve put a lot of effort into getting everything just right, Jeremiah,” he murmurs. Jeremiah is staring at him, momentarily struck, just as he always was whenever Bruce acknowledged him or his work, because Bruce’s opinion had always seemed to mean so much more to him than anyone else’s. The pressure that he’s using to pin Jeremiah’s hand lessens, but Jeremiah doesn’t pull away from him. The tension between them winds further, practically crackling in the air. “And it must have taken months of dedicated work to plan and complete that tunnel.” Which means that Jeremiah had been planning this for months. Possibly even since he first disappeared. Which means, of course, that Jeremiah has been thinking about him for just as long. Bruce should probably hate that he feels somewhat mollified at the knowledge that Jeremiah had certainly never ever forgotten about him. “You’ve been working very hard—” He tries to gentle his expression, tries to look at Jeremiah the way that he used to look at him. Fond. Warm. It’s not as difficult as it should probably be. “—haven’t you?”

Jeremiah shifts in his seat. He must realize what’s going on, he’s too smart not to, but Jeremiah is ruled by emotions. By obsession. By his obsession with Bruce. Even if Bruce is obviously buttering him up, he doesn’t want to cut things short if it means missing out on being praised by the person who he’s done all of this mad planning for.

“I have,” he answers, eyes locked on Bruce’s face as if he could stare at Bruce forever and not get tired of it. Bruce thinks about the bunker, about old conversations, about the way Jeremiah made him feel; he thinks about it hard enough that a genuine, though small, smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Jeremiah swallows heavily at the sight of it, and despite himself the smile widens a sliver. “It is always pleasant to have one’s work ethic acknowledged.”

Bruce looks back at him and tries very hard to ignore the fact that two hypnotized strangers disguised as his parents are silently watching over him and Jeremiah, living puppets waiting for a cue to carry out whatever instructions have been imprinted inside of their head. At least this isn’t being watched by someone who’s completely cognizant of what’s going on. Bruce might not have had the nerve to even attempt this, then. And then where would he be?

“Are you showing off just for me—” In for a penny, in for a pound. It wasn’t as if this situation could get any worse if Bruce was wrong. “—daddy?”

Jeremiah’s eyes go wide and mouth parts slightly, as if he means to say something, but it snaps back shut when Bruce shifts his hand so that he can interlock their fingers. 

He had been almost certain, before everything changed for the worse. He’s more certain now, since Jeremiah didn’t immediately pull away from him or laugh in his face. Jeremiah thought he couldn’t have him as a friend, so of course he wouldn’t think he could have that _something more_ that had been lingering, waiting, growing between them only to be snuffed out before anything had a chance to be spoken out loud. 

“Well?”

Jeremiah sucks in a breath. His fingers squeeze at Bruce’s hand.

“Of course it’s for you, Bruce. It’s always been all for you. Only for you.”

Bruce twists and slides forward in his seat, knees nudging at Jeremiah’s thigh.

Don’t think about the people behind you, he tells himself. Don’t think about Alfred. Don’t think about the bombs. Don’t think about what else he must have planned. Think about what you need to do; wind Jeremiah around your little finger so tight that he can’t disappear without a trace ever again.

“I kept looking for you, after you left me behind,” he whispers, and he wishes that all of the hurt in his voice was just a ruse. He had looked for Jeremiah. He’d looked for him violently and desperately. He’d tried to send out word but that hadn’t seemed to work, and then the first time he’d finally seen Jeremiah in the flesh again after months and months, Selina was—

Bruce shuts his eyes. Tries to forget it. Jeremiah squeezes at his hand again, as if to offer comfort. “Why did you hide away from me?”

“I had to make sure that every detail was perfect, Bruce. It hurt me terribly; to leave you, to lose you, but there was no other way.”

Jeremiah had spoken of losing his family, of the wound still not being healed, but Bruce was certain that it wasn’t sentiments for long-gone blood-relations that were still causing his heart to ache. When Jeremiah spoke of losing his family, what he was really speaking of was losing Bruce.

And Bruce can work with that. 

“Daddy.” Bruce’s voice is reedy, almost a whine. He watches Jeremiah’s pale, pale face start to gain colour again. “I missed you while you were gone.”

The saddest thing about this is that it’s not even a complete lie. The best lies always held fractions of the truth, after all. 

Jeremiah twists in the chair, their knees knocking and legs shifting, intertwining due to the lack of space between them. One of Bruce’s legs ends up clamped between Jeremiah’s thighs, their feet locking together at the ankles. 

“I missed you too, Bruce,” Jeremiah says earnestly, then adds on, softer, “darling.”

With his free hand Bruce reaches out, cautiously winding his fingers into the fabric of Jeremiah’s tie. He breaks eye contact to look at the shimmering red fabric, because he needs a break from seeing the way that Jeremiah is looking at him. Reverent. Adoring. It’s almost enough to break his heart; the could have beens, the would have beens, the potential between them shattering into impossibility because of a trap that Bruce hadn’t been able to save him from. 

“You left me alone for so long.” God, Bruce had been lonely; stripped of a friend that he’d thought he’d have forever, stripped of a possibility that had made his tender heart pound. “And even now that we’re together it seems like you’re planning on leaving me behind again.” The tunnel. The bombs. The puppets. The date. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Bruce, darling.” Jeremiah’s hand glides under his chin, forcing Bruce’s gaze back up. He is much gentler, now, than he had been when he’d gripped onto Bruce’s coat only minutes ago. Bruce is wearing him down. Bruce is wearing himself down, too, but he’ll ignore that for now. He can handle it. “Of course not. It’s all just to bring us closer together. It’s all just to make you into what you’re supposed to be.”

Jeremiah had set down the detonator to touch Bruce’s face.

Two possibilities stretch before Bruce. He could fight, and he might win, because Jeremiah can’t currently threaten to blow them all up. Jeremiah, despite the soft touch of his hands and the yearning in his gaze, is probably coiled full of tension as he awaits that possibility; the proof that Bruce had been telling lies in order to get under his skin and past his defences. The thing with fighting Jeremiah, though, was that it never really seemed to end. Even if Bruce won, Jeremiah would get out again. Wreak havoc again. Destroy everything again. There were too many people loyal to Jeremiah for him to be contained forever. And there were too many people who had celebrated his death for Bruce to think that Jeremiah would be safe if they tried to contain him in the first place. 

Or Bruce could continue on as he has been. He could wind Jeremiah tightly around his little finger. Weaken him with kisses and promises and indulgences. Pander to Jeremiah’s needs—to care for Bruce, to complete Bruce, to be all that Bruce ever wanted—so wholly that he was unable to even consider leaving Bruce behind for months again. Make him forget whatever awful plans he must have had in store for tonight by letting the shattered potential of what had once lingered between them reform itself in the present moment. Not as sweet, and more dangerous, than it could have been before. Different, but familiar. 

The broken remains of something that Bruce had once looked upon and _wanted._

“And what am I supposed to be?” He leans in, just a little, narrowing the gap between them. His hands are starting to finely tremble from the knowledge that such an intimate moment and such an intimate conversation are not completely private. He wonders if Jeremiah is enjoying the fact that Bruce’s stand-in mother and father are watching and not attempting to put an end to anything; an imitation of parental acceptance. 

“Connected to me, in a way that you’ve never been connected to anyone,” Jeremiah answers lowly. “My opposite, my equal, my everything.” He shifts even closer, and their foreheads brush. “Darling…” His eyes are so bright, Bruce can’t look away from them. “You’re supposed to be mine.”

Once upon a time Bruce had wanted that, too. 

Bruce’s hand pulls the tie taut.

“Daddy,” he breathes.

Jeremiah gives in to the tension building between them, both of his hands lift to settle on either side of Bruce’s face, and the bubble finally bursts. 

Bruce used to think about what their first kiss would be like, back before everything soured. He’d thought about initiating it while lit up in the blue light of the generator. He’d thought it would be soft and tender, and that afterwards Jeremiah would hold him close and vow sweet promises—to look after Bruce and care for Bruce in the way he occasionally insinuated that _somebody_ should—and Bruce would feel like he could give in to that growing desire to be doted on, because it was Jeremiah. But that was months ago, now, and so many things are not as they were back during those idyllic memories. 

And yet, his mind decides to remind him, and yet, Jeremiah had already been changed as their relationship—and that unnamed thing brewing between them—developed. 

It is not the first kiss that he used to daydream of; it is firm, wet, desperate. Bruce can feel lipstick smearing against his mouth, and Jeremiah drags one of his hands into Bruce’s hair while the other squeezes his fingers. Perhaps it is better that it is not exactly like what Bruce used to daydream about, because that would probably make his heart ache even more than it already is. 

He presses against Jeremiah’s mouth softly and Jeremiah murmurs Bruce’s name, delighted and infatuated at the reciprocation, under his breath. Bruce opens his mouth and slides his tongue past Jeremiah’s lips, grazing against his closed teeth, and Jeremiah shudders and presses closer, closer, fingers twisting so tightly into Bruce’s hair that trying to pull away would cause discomfort. It is undoubtedly possessive, but Bruce would have to be a fool to believe that Jeremiah—covetous, jealous, obsessive Jeremiah—wouldn’t see this moment as an opportunity to bind himself and Bruce together forever.

At least this way Bruce has some control over the situation, as opposed to whatever end Jeremiah had been set on hurtling them towards as little as ten minutes ago.

Jeremiah drags his tongue incessantly over Bruce’s lips and a shiver runs up Bruce’s spine as he parts them. Jeremiah licks into his mouth as if he wishes to remember the sensation of each of Bruce’s teeth grazing against his tongue, as if he has been dreaming of the inside of Bruce’s cheeks and the roof of his mouth. There is zero self-control and very little finesse, as if there had been too much time spent longing for this and thinking it would never happen to bother with a slow build up. Jeremiah has Bruce right where he wants him, now.

But the opposite is also true.

Because Jeremiah can’t ruin everything all over again when his focus is completely fixated on Bruce. 

Bruce breaks the kiss but Jeremiah hovers close, smudging lipstick imprints at the corners of Bruce’s mouth and on his cheeks.

“Daddy.” He allows himself to sound needy, sure that Jeremiah will eat it up, and he feels his cheeks burn at the breathy, pleased sound that Jeremiah makes. Perhaps he wants this more than he should, all things considered. Perhaps in indulging Jeremiah he will also indulge himself. Perhaps they were still so well-matched, even after all that had happened. “I missed you so much. Will you—” There was no way—absolutely no way—that Jeremiah had been hiding away in Bruce’s home for days and had not memorized every single room that Bruce had ever stepped inside of. “—take me to bed?”

Fake or not, Bruce doesn’t think he could stand this going much further while people who looked like his parents watched on; benign, waiting for a signal that hopefully would never come, now.

“My sweet, darling boy.” Both of Jeremiah’s hands cup his face, his expression is utterly lovesick as he looks upon Bruce. Bruce’s heart flutters and he breathes in a fortifying breath before leaning into the welcoming support of Jeremiah’s hands. “Daddy thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
